


searching for something i can't reach

by chocobos



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, unnecessary manpain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 07:23:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4212990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocobos/pseuds/chocobos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a wedding band on his finger. He is, at least seventy-five percent positive that it shouldn't even be there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	searching for something i can't reach

**Author's Note:**

> i cannot believe i've already finished another fic for this fandom.
> 
> i just couldn't get the idea of fenris/hawke accidentally getting drunk gay married, so i wrote it. lord help us all. 
> 
> also~ this is set in a universe where dwarves/humans/elves/etc all coexist (much like the canon universe, only warriors/mages/rogues/etc don't really exist anymore). think of it as modern day!thedas.
> 
> pretend elves/humans can get married, ok. thedas is just that progressive. i'd also like to think of val royeaux as thedas's own las vegas. only way more judgmental, and slightly more dangerous.
> 
> i hope u enjoy!! i still don't have a beta so if there's any ~glaring~ mistakes i do apologize!!

There’s a wedding band on his finger.

Hawke stares at in disbelief for all of three seconds before his hangover makes itself known and starts pounding unpleasantly in the confines of his skull. He tries to care more about the wedding band on his finger than the truly ridiculous hangover, he does -- he’s apparently married now, this is an important development, surely -- but he can barely keep his eyes open. And since Hawke is a man that values his sleep highly, he sinks back into his pillows.

“So,” Hawke murmurs to himself. He barely registers the arm he has thrown over someone’s waist, and blearily lifts his head to chance a look at who exactly he’s holding down.

He sees a flash of bright, down-soft white hair, pointed ears and the inklings of white-ink tattoos crawling up his neck.

It’s _Fenris_.

“Okay,” he whispers, to no one in particular. “That’s a thing now,” and promptly falls right back to sleep.

He figures this can wait until morning, preferably when he doesn’t have the taste of hell in his mouth and his brain isn’t try to liquify through his ears.

(It is, as these things go, probably not the smartest decision he’s ever made.)

 

\---

 

The second time Hawke wakes up, the bed is cold, his head is still pounding something fierce, and the ring is miraculously on his finger, bright and silver and glaring at him.

He chances a look around the hotel room. His suitcase is spread out on the bed closest to the balcony where he left it, clothes strewn over every available surface because he couldn’t find anything to wear before the night out last night. There’s nothing of Fenris in the room, right now, and Hawke might’ve been able to chalk it all up to some hilarious, lovesick hallucination if it weren’t for the ring on his finger.

Unless it _was_ some hilarious lovesick hallucination and he accidentally married someone else. That...would definitely be something that would happen to Hawke. He’s never been regarded for his ability to think things through (probably because he doesn’t, at all).

Hawke should get out of bed. He should get out of bed and go hunt Fenris down and try to talk this out with him since there’s a definite chance Fenris is down at the hotel bar trying to drink himself into forgetting. But, Hawke’s hangover is brutal, and he can still smell Fenris on the sheets; sandalwood and vanilla and the musk that is just Fenris naturally.

Between one breath and the next, Hawke’s sleeping again.

  
  


\---

  
  
  


Hawke wakes up this time to papers being thrown in his face.

“Ow,” he mumbles, burying his face further into the pillows. “Was that really necessary?”

“Yes,” and, well, Hawke would know that voice anywhere. He’s up out of bed like a shot, and sees Fenris’s emerald green eyes staring back at him, misty from the hangover, but otherwise clear.

_Huh_ , Hawke thinks. So, he didn’t spend his morning at the hotel bar, then.

“Hello, husband.” Hawke greets with a grin. He knows instantly that it’s the wrong thing to say, because Fenris huddles in on himself, his expression shuttering. His face is disturbingly blank. This isn’t how this was supposed to go, he's sure of it.

“Don’t call me _that_.” Fenris snaps. He picks up the papers that have been discarded by Hawke’s head, and shoves them into his hands. Hawke tries not to feel disappointed when he sees Fenris isn’t wearing his ring, and tells himself that he’s known for years Fenris hasn’t returned his feelings. This shouldn’t have been all too surprising. “I got the papers for the annulment.”

“I see that,” Hawke chokes out, and tries not to look at them too closely. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with this right now. He wants to find the nearest tavern that serves the finest Orlesian wine that he can find, and get properly smashed.

Fenris makes an annoyed noise. Hawke doesn’t know if he’s annoyed more at Hawke for not taking this so seriously, or at the papers in front of him that he probably had to give a limb for to get processed on a Saturday.

“We can’t get it finalized until they reopen,” he says, tone lifeless.

“I figured as much,” Hawke answers, and then puts the paperwork aside. “In that case, if you would excuse me.”

“Where are you going?” asks Fenris.

Hawke can’t say what he wants to, which is something along the lines of, 'I’m going to find the nearest source of the finest alcohol and drink myself stupid since I somehow managed to marry the one person in all of Thedas who has absolutely no interest in me.' That’s a little too pathetic, even for his own ears. Instead, he shrugs, and pulls on his clothes from last night. They smell a little too strongly of alcohol, but since he has no plans to stray from it in the foreseeable future, he figures it’s passable anyway.

“I’m going to go to the tavern.”

“Hawke, I--”

Hawke awkwardly pats his shoulder. “You don’t have to explain yourself, Fenris.”

Fenris doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t have to. The cold realization that Hawke’s suspicions about Fenris not returning his feelings are no easier to deal with, even if he did see them coming.

  
  


\---

  
  


Varric finds him when he’s four pints in.

The edges of his vision are beginning to blur nicely already, and his limbs are loose and warm to the point that he doesn’t realize he’s been playing with the ring on his finger for the last twenty-five minutes until a hand reaches out to stop him.

“This screams a little too Lowtown Wench,” Varric starts, “Even for you, Hawke.”

Hawke snorts, and blearily raises his mug in greeting. Now that it’s in his line of vision, he sees that it’s just about empty. He hastily flags down the bartender for another one.

“Fenris sent you, didn’t he?” That blighted elf just couldn’t damn help himself, could he?

“If I said no, would it make you feel any better?”

“No,” Hawke says, morosely. “Probably not.”

“I thought so,” Varric says, and dutifully places another mug in front of him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Why embarrass myself further?” Hawke asks. “You were there, weren’t you?”

Varric chuckles. “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Hawke,” is all he says. “Even your favorite sibling Little Hawke showed up.”

Hawke lowers his head to the counter. He slams his head against it repeatedly for a few seconds, and sighs. “Wonderful! I can only imagine how _that_ went.”

“Rivaini filmed it on her phone.”

“Why didn’t you guys stop me?” Hawke asks, after a few moments of silence.

It is, the only thing that Hawke has been able to think of since he stormed out of his own hotel room. Everyone -- probably including Fenris, at this point, if he’s honest with himself -- has known for years how Hawke has felt about the elf, have seen how he sneaks glances every time he has his gaze averted elsewhere, how Hawke is always first to ask how he’s doing after a particularly gruesome night out.

Varric should’ve stopped him. Varric should’ve pulled him away, stuffed him in a nice cab back en route to his hotel room the _moment_ he started lamenting about Fenris’s eyelashes. He remembers doing that. Kind of. Maybe.

(He laments about Fenris’s eyelashes a lot. They’re nice eyelashes.)

“We tried,” Varric laughs. “Rivaini and I both tried to talk sense into you, but you’re a stubborn bastard, Hawke. We couldn’t have dragged you out of there if we had all the power in  _Thedas._ ”

“How did I even get myself into this mess?” asks Hawke. “I don’t know if I can handle signing those papers, Varric. I don’t think I can do it.”

“Have you tried telling him that?” Varric suggests, gently.

“You should’ve seen his face,” Hawke groans. He can’t even remember the last time Fenris looked at him so coldly. “It was like he’d rather be tortured then have to look at me. He wasn’t--” Hawke breaks off.

Varric blinks at him patiently.

“He wasn’t even wearing the ring.”

“Ouch,” Varric says, but not unkindly. “That--I’m going to be honest, Hawke. I’m not sure what to do with that.”

“Fenris wants the papers signed,” sighs Hawke. “It’ll kill me. It’ll put me six feet under, but Maker’s breath, I can’t deny him anything that he wants.”

“You should talk to him,” Varric insists. “He might just surprise you.”

Hawke grimaces. “I don’t think that’ll go over well. It’ll be for the best of all involved if I drowned myself in Orlesian liquor and ignored him until I can’t do it anymore.”

Varric, spotting a losing battle when he sees one, just pats Hawke on the back. “Then, you, my friend, have a lot of drinking to do.”

  
  


\---

  
  


By the time he makes it back to his hotel room, it’s nearing midnight, and he smells so strongly of alcohol he’s pretty sure the teenagers he passed on the way over here got a contact buzz.

The only immediate plans Hawke has right now is to collapse in his bed, possibly order some room service so he doesn’t wake up to another hangover in the morning, and mindlessly lose himself in reality television until he can’t think anymore.

What he _doesn't_ plan for is Fenris to be sitting on the bed that previously had Hawke’s suitcase on it, expression angry; mouth a thin, hard line.

“Hawke,” Fenris says, and looks read for a fight before he catches a glimpse of just how plastered he is and he deflates. “You’re drunk.”

“Stellar observation, Fenris!” Hawke croons. He trips over a discarded shoe and only doesn’t land on his ass like the bastard he is because Fenris reaches out at the speed of light to stop him.

“ _Stop_ it,” The elf hisses, “You’re going to injure yourself.”

Hawke shrugs. “Why are you even here?” He asks, tiredly, but lets Fenris lead him over to his bed anyway.

Fenris looks conflicted for a few moments, before his expression melts into that same one Hawke hates so much. He has the sudden and debilitating urge to try and smooth it out with his thumb, but he’s pretty sure that will only leave him with a punch to the face. Hawke quite likes his face. It’d be terrible to have it bruised for a few days.

“I came to talk to you,” Fenris starts, and gestures awkwardly between Hawke’s ringed-up hand and Fenris’s bare one. “About this.”

“Oh,” Hawke starts. “Glad I missed it, then.” He sounds more bitter than he intends to, and hopes Fenris just chalks it up to Hawke being drunk and not to any underlying feelings he may or may not be privy to.

“ _Hawke_ ,” Fenris says, and pinches the bridge of his nose. Hawke quite likes Fenris’s nose. It’s slender and pointed and cute. “You’re making this difficult.”

Hawke shrugs, and lays back against the pillows. He reaches over to fumble through the nightstand for the room service menu, purposely not answering him. This is the last thing in Thedas he wants to talk about, maybe second only to Orlesian lacing -- which is as difficult and pretentious as it sounds.

“Are you hungry?” Hawke asks, suddenly. He thinks it would probably be too rude not to offer Fenris food, as well, no matter how oblivious he is to Hawke’s turmoil.

“I--what?”

“I’m going to order food,” Hawke says, slowly, like he’s talking to a toddler. Fenris is infuriating sometimes. “Are you hungry?”

“No,” Fenris spits. “I am not hungry, Hawke.”

Hawke shrugs, running his forefinger down the menu to try and decide what it is exactly he’s in the mood for. He’s trying to pick between a bacon cheeseburger and the Ultimate Supreme Omelette (whatever _that_ is) when a tattooed hand reaches out to shut the menu on him.

“That’s rude, Fenris,” Hawke tsks, and tries to open it again. Only Fenris doesn’t loosen his grip.

“We are having this conversation, Hawke.”

Hawke stares at Fenris’s face for longer than he intends. Fenris’s guard is up, like it almost always is whenever he hasn’t had a few drinks in him, but beyond that, the elf looks tired. A bone-deep, exhausted kind of tired that radiates through him to the point that if Hawke didn’t know him so well, he’d think that he would probably topple over.

“Alright,” Hawke says, quietly. “Alright.”

“I--” Fenris cuts himself off. “Good.”

“Just, let me order food.” Hawke says. “I’m not sober enough for this conversation.”

Fenris looks like he’s about to object, like Hawke would use this as an escape tactic (he’s right, Hawke totally would), but he must see just how drunk he is because it only takes him a few more moment to relent.

“Order food,” Fenris says, his voice just short of a command. Hawke shudders, but tries to hide it by squirming into his pillows. By the exasperated look Fenris aims at him, he wasn’t very successful. “Then we’ll talk.”

  
  


\---

  
  


By the time Hawke has successfully shoved his face into an enormous pile of pancakes, and made his way through three glasses of water -- thanks to Fenris’s insistence -- he’s feeling significantly more sober, his stomach full of dread. He insists on walking into the bathroom to run the plates and silverware underneath the water to clean them, and he can feel Fenris’s incredulous stare on his back as he does it.

“You don’t have to do that.” Fenris tells him, for what is probably the fifth time. “They have dishwashers for a reason.”

“Fenris,” Hawke says, voice barely short of pleading. “Let me do this, please.”

Hawke still has no idea how he’s going to tell Fenris how he feels. From the moment he saw Fenris sitting on the bed, he knew he had to tell him. Telling him was better than _not_ telling him, and Isabela and Varric would be the first to say this is a secret he’s kept for far too long. It’s just one he can’t afford to keep anymore.

Fenris and Hawke have known each other for years, since Fenris stumbled his way into _The Hanged Man_ one night, tired and tipsy and so, so small, with dark purple circles under his eyes that matched the purple-blue bruises painting his upper arms and neck. Hawke doesn’t remember much about that night, he was too drunk and it was so long ago but what he does remember is the way Fenris’s hair swept into his eyes, stark white against his light brown skin.

He’s had it bad from the beginning.

The elf doesn’t protest any longer, and Hawke can hear the bedsprings of the mattress creak underneath his weight. He breathes a selective sigh of relief that he hopes isn’t loud enough to be heard from where Fenris is no doubt perched on the bed, and scrubs syrup off of the plate in his hands.

Hawke might’ve made the collective decision to finally come clean, but damn it all if he’s not going to drag his feet to do it.

 

\---

  
  


His fingers are pruny by the time he walks out of the bathroom and into the main room. Fenris is perched up on the bed closest to the balcony, the hotel guide spread open on his lap. Hawke takes a deep breath, padding into the room. His hands are sweating despite just being submerged in water for the better part of twenty minutes, and his stomach is churning so painfully he has to grab onto the headboard to stop from tilting right over.

Hawke can do this. This is totally a thing Hawke can do. It’s not like he accidentally got drunk married to the best friend he’s been in love with for five years in Val Royeaux. Hawke totally has this in the metaphorical bag.

He thinks, amused, that if Anders were here, he would probably be laughing at him.

Why didn’t they take Anders along? Anders would’ve been nice. He wouldn’t have let Hawke get gay married to Fenris. Anders would’ve _stopped_ Hawke from this embarrassment, he’s sure of it.

Fenris doesn’t look up from the guide in his lap, though his sensitive hearing must’ve already picked up on Hawke being in the room. Hawke knows Fenris is just doing this for Hawke’s benefit, probably due to the fact that even though Fenris is really fucking clueless to all things even remotely emotional, it’s obvious that Hawke is nervous. He’s never been more nervous.

He lays back against the headboard of the opposite bed, aiming for relaxed but he definitely just looks like he has a stick up his ass. Wonderful.

“You wanted to talk,” Hawke says.

Fenris’s gaze immediately lifts from the guide, and he shoves it back onto the nightstand. “I did.”

“So, talk,” Hawke replies, settling his hands in his lap to try and stop them from sweating so profusely.

The elf’s eyebrows furrow. Hawke notices that happens any time Fenris wants to say something but doesn’t know exactly how to say it. At any other time, he’d find it adorable, endearing even, but the only thing that Hawke can think about is Fenris trying to find a way to let him down gently without completely decimating Hawke’s heart.

Fenris is oblivious, but he isn’t _that_ oblivious, surely. Hawke’s been dragging his feet since Fenris cornered him this morning. Surely, he can tell how much Hawke would rather not have to get their marriage annulled.

“Tell me, Hawke,” Fenris starts. “Why are you still wearing the ring?”

Hawke has been waiting for this question all day, since he woke up this morning with his arm wrapped around Fenris’s waist, his soft hair tickling his nose. He’s been waiting for it all day and he still doesn’t have an answer. Well, he doesn't have an answer that Fenris will like, at least.

“I want to,” is what Hawke says, and doesn’t elaborate.

Fenris turns to look at him now, and his gaze is weary, confused, and maybe even a little curious. “Why?”

Hawke swallows so hard it hurts. “Do we have to do this?” He asks, desperately. “I’ll sign your damn papers. I’ll sign whatever you like. Just--just don’t do _this._ ” _Don’t make me admit this_ , Hawke thinks.

He’s been staring his hands in his lap for a long time, so he doesn’t realize Fenris has moved until the bed dips beneath the elf’s weight. Hawke still doesn’t want to chance looking up, knowing that everything he feels, all of the crushing love he feels for Fenris will be written all over his face.

“Hawke,” Fenris says. When he doesn’t look up, he says, quieter, gentler, “ _Garrett_. Look at me.”

Hawke can count the number of times Fenris has used his first name on one hand, and one of those times had been when Isabela had gotten into an accident with a carving knife that required her to get stitches. Fenris doesn’t use it unless he means it, and that, he’ll tell himself later, is why he finally looks up.

Fenris’s eyes are even more green this close. Hawke is never prepared for it, the way they sparkle underneath the white of his hair, but it always manages to make his breath get caught in his throat. Fenris doesn’t look angry anymore. If anything he looks open, careful; _hopeful_. Hawke tries not to think about what that might mean. That’s a dangerous path even he has enough self-preservation not to go down.

“Hawke,” Fenris repeats. “Why are you still wearing the ring?”

Hawke can’t answer. Hawke doesn’t have an answer. He’s quiet for a long time, for so long that he thinks Fenris will maybe tire of this game and storm out like he does whenever he’s too upset or scared, but Fenris stays. Hawke doesn’t know how it happens, or who leans in first, but one breath he’s trying to get out the words that are stuck on his tongue and the next he’s pressing his lips against Fenris’s.

The elf makes a startled noise, but it’s not wholly unpleasant. Hawke takes that as all of the courage he needs, because he presses in more firmly, burying one of his hands into that soft, glorious hair. It’s silk-smooth beneath the pads of his fingers, and he has to swallow down a truly embarrassing noise at that. He’s so caught up in the feeling of Fenris’s lips against his -- they’re tender, taste like strawberries and stale coffee, which makes a whole new kind of want blossom at the bottom of his stomach -- that he doesn’t realize there’s a returning pressure against his lips until Fenris loops an arm around his neck.

Hawke realizes, belatedly, that this isn’t their first kiss. That their first kiss was in front of two of their closest friends and a priest who probably hasn’t even been to a chantry once in his life, but he doesn’t even care. He doesn’t care at all. Fenris is kissing him back, and Hawke never thought that he would have even _this_. Sweet Andraste herself could come swooping down out of the clouds and smite him where he sits and he wouldn't even be angry about it.

The kiss quickly turns from pleasant and sweet to something more urgent, and Hawke lets both hands travel to Fenris’s slender hips to pull him closer, so he’s practically straddling Hawke’s waist. Fenris makes a noise against his throat that’s stuck halfway between a growl and a whine. Hawke’s hips buck up at that, involuntarily.

“Wait,” Fenris says, and it’s like cold water has been poured right on Hawke’s head. Shit. He knew it was too good to be true. “Wait. Hawke.”

“Shit,” Hawke says, and lets his head thump back against the headboard. He was projecting all of his shitty feelings all over Fenris. He makes a move to shove the elf off of him, because this obviously isn’t what he wants, but Fenris doesn’t let him, just settles his thighs more firmly around Hawke’s own and doesn’t budge. “Fenris?”

He tries. He tries so hard not to hope.

“You kissed me.” Fenris hisses, almost an accusation.

Hawke laughs, but it’s a bitter, dead sound. “Again, Fenris, your observational skills continue to astound me.”

“Are you ever serious?” asks Fenris, but before Hawke can say something in return, continues with, “Tell me, Garrett. Why didn’t you take off the ring?”

Hawke sighs. “Can we go back to kissing, instead? I’ve always liked kissing exceptionally more than talking.”

Fenris glowers at him. He has a very nice glower so Hawke really isn’t too bothered by it. “ _Hawke._ ”

It’s then that he remembers Fenris is very much perched on his lap. He tries not to make a noise at that, and looks up at the ceiling. He can’t avoid this forever, especially not if Fenris is going to stay there for a while. There’s only so long Hawke can ignore a lapful of elf before he goes a little bleary eyed.

“I haven’t taken off the ring because I don’t want to,” Hawke says, and Fenris makes a frustrated sound. “I never want to. I would never take it off if you didn’t make me.”

Fenris stares at him. “Explain. Please.”

Hawke gingerly lifts one of his hands ( _still_ ) resting on Fenris’s hips to run through his hair. “I like you,” he admits, and if it sounds like it’s clawed it’s way out of his mouth; it has. “More than I probably should. More than I ever expected. I, uh, I wasn’t exactly upset when I woke up this morning and saw the ring on my finger.”

Fenris blinks at him. “You were _happy_?” He asks, incredulous.

“Extremely so.”

“You married an elf.” Fenris points out, like it’s a bad thing, like Hawke should be ashamed.

“I married you.”

Hawke looks away, then, because there are lot of things he can deal with, but seeing the realization dawn on Fenris that Hawke has been in love with him for ages is not one of them. He’s expecting Fenris to clamber off of his lap now, to make some excuse that gets him out of the door, but Fenris doesn’t. Hawke doesn’t know why Fenris keeps surprising him, but he does. He always has.

There’s a hand, suddenly, at the bottom of his chin, urging him to meet Fenris’s gaze again. Hawke has never been able to deny Fenris anything, not when it really mattered, so he goes with it. He isn’t about to start saying no now.

“Hawke,” Fenris repeats, reverent, mouth twitching, before leaning in.

Hawke is kissing Fenris. _Again_. It doesn’t register for a few moments, so he’s left laying there with his hands hovering over Fenris’s waist like a loser for all of thirty seconds before he springs into action, grabbing hold of the elf’s form, crashing their bodies even closer. Hawke isn’t sure what’s happening, but he’s not about to pull away and ask him about it. He knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when it comes to this.

He slides his hands up and down Fenris’s sides, which he seems to like because it leaves the elf hissing into his mouth. Hawke grins, kiss happy and pliant, and floating. He can't quite believe this is happening, if he’s being honest with himself, but he sinks into it anyway, snapping his hips up to meet Fenris’s own.

He growls into his mouth, and Hawke doesn’t even try not to melt into the sheets at the sound.

“Too many,” Hawke begins, leaving a trail of kisses down Fenris’s throat. Fenris gasps, arching to give Hawke more access, and he gets distracted with tracing the lines of his tattoos with his tongue.

“Too many _what_?”

“Too many clothes,” pants Hawke, fumbling with trying to get Fenris’s shirt unbuttoned. “You’re always wearing so many damn clothes.”

Fenris laughs, a full belly laugh that Hawke has never heard before. He almost wants to repeat himself to see if he can hear it again.

“I could say the same for you, Hawke,” Fenris’s voice tingles along his nerves pleasantly, making his dick twitch in the confines of his jeans.

“Shit,” Hawke says, and sits up so he can tear his own shirt off.

Fenris’s eyes make a path down his shoulders, to the light splattering of chest hair that gathers at the middle of his pecs, to the trail of hair that disappears into waistband of his jeans. Hawke doesn’t miss how Fenris’s tongue darts out to lick his lips. He’s so turned on he might actually pass out if he keeps this up, he’s sure of it.

“Naked,” He grunts, pulling Fenris even closer so their chests rub together. The fabric of Fenris’s shirt catches on his nipples and he groans at the sensation. “You need to be naked. _Now_.”

Fenris laughs at him, which would be cruel if it weren’t for the fact that Fenris’s hips are jerking down into his. “I believe I can do that for you.”

Oh, Thank the Maker.

  
  


\---

  
  


The next morning, Hawke wakes up to Fenris trailing love bites and kisses down the expanse of his throat, wakes up to a mouthful of morning breath and interlocked fingers. He wakes up to Fenris running his fingers through his hair and it’s only when some of his strands get caught on something that he realizes Fenris put his ring back on.

It is, as Hawke points out to Fenris multiple times later that day, probably the greatest thing to ever happen to him.

**Author's Note:**

> fun factz:
> 
> \+ it's taking absolutely everything in me _not_ to title this 'waking up in thedas' but i do have some self control. some.  
>  \+ i know absolutely nothing about divorces/annullments/etc so lets just pretend everything regarding those i mentioned in the fic is 100% accurate, ok? ok.
> 
> if u ever want to talk to me about these two nerd eggs feel free to chat me up on my tumblr (@asexualfenris) i'm always welcome to new friends :^)


End file.
